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The guy in the window seat has faded jeans, a neck tat and mostly gray hair that’s been subdued into a ragged ponytail. He glances over and makes a sympathetic noise. “Yo, sister, don’t be so hard on yourself. Getting robbed on a trip”—he shrugs—“shit happens. That’s why God gave us the Second Amendment.”

I lift my head and stare, unsure what he means. Do I lookthatbad? And didn’t God give commandments, not amendments?

I open my mouth to say that I haven’t been robbed and “thou shalt not steal” isn’t the second commandment, anyway, but he’s quicker.

“Shoot ’em dead and they can’t steal anymore.” He makes a pistol with his hand and mimes pulling the trigger, recoil and all.

My mind goes blank. I blink several times at him.I don’t speak English anymore.Je suis français, I tell myself, refusing to process anything beyond the need to go home and figure out what to do about Rhys and my job.

Once the plane takes off, I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. My stomach starts to ache, likely from stress and anxiety. I rub my belly, then stop as a sudden chill rattles through me.

Am I going to get pregnant?

We didn’t use a condom. Any of the times. An acidic lump lodges in my throat.Oh,no,no,no… I swallow, bracing the back of my skull against the headrest, squeezing my eyes shut.

It’ll be okay. Better be okay.Hasto be okay. I concentrate on breathing slowly. I’m not repeating the mistake Mom made, getting pregnant with the wrong guy—and Rhys is definitely the wrong guy. A great boss if you want to work hard and learn. But a workaholic isnotwhat I want. I want a man who can be there for me, make time for our family. Someone who can make me and our children his top priority. Rhys measures everything interms of efficiency and ROI. A wife and children are time sucks with negative return, always in the way of another important, profitable deal.

Stop thinking about being Rhys’s wife. That’ll never happen, even if I did sleep with him. It was just the one time.

I exhale slowly. This isn’t like three years ago, when I had no experience or skills.

I pull out my phone and start jotting down all my newly acquired qualifications and qualities to include in my résumé, just in case. Working for someone as particular, grumpy and difficult to please as Rhys should count for something.

Besides, the universe probably feels really bad for me. It’ll be kinder. I just can’t imagine my life becoming any worse than it did already.

The flight arrives early and lands so smoothly that I barely even realize we hit the ground. No line at immigration and customs, either.

I hand my passport to a flint-eyed officer with a flat mouth. Probably just wants to look stern to assert his authority. He glances at it, then says, “Are you telling me your name is Rhys Kingswood?”

What? Oh my God! Whydo I have Rhys’s passport? I take the passport back and stare at the main page. Yup, it’s him, with the barest hint of smile on his perfect face. His blue eyes are shockingly piercing—if the agent were female, she might’ve clutched her chest, whimpering, “Be still my heart.”

How can he look this good in what is basically a boring ID photo?

And did I have his passport all this time? But no, Japanese immigration didn’t bat an eye when they stamped my passport, and they would’ve said something.

Okay, first things first. I turn my attention back to the more pressing matter. “That’s my boss. Sorry. I’m his assistant.” Ikeep my words measured, trying to stay calm. “I was carrying it for him because, you know, he doesn’t carry a lot of his own stuff. That kind of boss.”Whoosh,under the bus you go,Rhys!But he isn’t here and I need to get out of this.

I rummage through my purse until I find another passport and check it. Yes, definitely mine, with a photo that’s marginally more serviceable than the one on my driver’s license. “Here. Sorry about the mix-up.”

The agent takes it and studies the photo and me. I paste on a smile that hopefully looks friendly and harmless.

“There’s no way this is you,” he says finally.

The smile slips. “Excuse me?”

He flips the passport and shows me the photo. “See this?”

“Yeah.Me.”

“No. Not you.” His eyes move up and down, from my head to neck, then back.

“But it is! Maxine Julianna Norman!”

“You look nothing like this photo.” His eyes—and attitude—say,Stop lying,you know you’re not good looking enough. “Step over here, please.”

Chapter Eighteen

Rhys